Jane's tundra coat stretched across her slight frame.
It was a dusky orange, like the bruises on her arms, and both sleeves were torn. Her curly hair, a shade between gray and brown, hung loosely in braids.
Her blue eyes glinted with mischief as she hurried down the hill. She stopped her horse, a beautiful bay gelding named Zephyr, and slid from the saddle.
In one motion she unhooked her rifle from its saddle, loaded it, and fired a shot into the night sky. The night resonated with thunder and the smell of gunpowder.
The bullet ricocheted off a mountain two hundred yards away and plunked into the ground at Jane's feet.
YOU ARE READING
End of Rush Anthology
PoetryHave you ever felt so distracted by work that you had no time to enjoy your life? You've found that every day is a blur of deadlines and stress. Every evening you come home exhausted and ready to collapse, but still have to suffer through more work...
